A Leap of Faith

For years I've heard lots of people tell me "You should write a book" after listening to me retell snippets of my childhood.  Mind you, I'm no author and I have limited literature skills that would levitate me to the the status of a famed writer such as Stephen King or Dan Brown or any of the many authors who have made a name for themselves over time.  But I do so love to write.

That said I have often contemplated the idea of writing a book.  Sometimes I've considered writing a series of books.  At one point I even created a file folder on my laptop labeled "book ideas" yet I have never gotten farther than a few lines of thought typed out at a frantic pace.  Obviously I've blogged.  You know this by the mere fact this post is being read.  I'm a horrible blogger.  I can go weeks, months without posting a thing.  I feel terrible for doing so yet I continue avoiding the very thing I want to do.  Write.

I'm no author.  The mere thought of having to throw words onto a sheet of paper in such a way as to make it not only interesting but intriguing makes me mentally shrivel into the fetal position.  I adore the feeling of freely transposing thoughts into words; the freedom that comes from letting go of every detail and giving it life on paper.  At the other end of the spectrum I am terrified to write.  Petrified by the very idea someone else will read what I have written and all my secret thoughts and ideas will no longer be solely my own.  Horrified by the thought of someone else lending voice to my words.

As a child I loved to write.  I had a journal.  Kept it in my dresser or under my pillow.  Tucked inside those pages were my every thought.  Some good; most bad.  More days than not those small pages became my only friend.  The only way I could vent my feelings without getting into trouble for having those feelings.  Thinking back it is impossible to remember how I ended up with that piece of heaven in the first place.  The memory of how such a prized possession came to be mine escapes me but the knowledge that at some point in my early years I had it lingers on in the back of my mind.

Many a night I sat up taking out my anger and frustration, sadness and pain on those pages.  Many a night I scribbled thoughts of running away and/or how I would commit suicide.  Occasionally I would find a bright spot to share with my pen and paper friend, but rarely did I go to sleep without a single tear filling my eyes to the point of spilling over.  Far too many nights I cried myself to sleep with hopes the next sunrise would bring with it a new life.  One filled with happiness and love.  Those days never came to me as a child.  Nor as a young adult.  I was well into my 40's when peace, love, and happiness finally found me.

These days were hard fought for and they are treasured beyond belief.  Finally I have a loving family and the home life I always wanted.  There is just one thing missing.  My journal.  Or rather my fearless desire to express myself on paper.  

Like I said, I know I had a journal as a kid even though I cannot for the life of me recall how it came to be mine.  For as strong as the memory of having the journal is there is one memory of my beloved paper friend which is most unforgettable.  The last day I ever saw it.  The last day I wrote in it.  That memory will be forever ingrained into my soul.  And it is the very reason I have such a hard time expressing myself on paper nowadays.

The visual impression of watching your older brother emerge from your bedroom with your private journal in hand haunts me to this day.  With a cat-like grin on his face he gave voice to the words I had scribbled on those many pages.  A voice, not my own spewing my words for all to hear.  Worse yet, those words were heard by my mother.  This would not be seen as such a defining moment in one's life if it were not for the simple fact that so many of those pages were filled with the emotional rants of a child struggling to survive a roller-coaster relationship with her own family, and most especially her own mother.  

So many of those pages were filled with rants and feelings of anger and despair.  So many of those pages filled with hopes of sudden death or wishes of things never to be had.  Every one of those pages filled with thoughts, feelings, emotions, and ideas never intended for anyone other than me.  And yet there they were, filling the air for all to hear.  And my mother took great glory in snatching that journal from my brothers hand only to partake in lending her voice to all those pages.

My private journal was no more.  I would never see it after that day.  I would never again feel what it was like to confide every thought I could muster onto a sheet of paper without fear of reprimand or criticism.  Never again would I trust pen and paper to such extent as to reveal my every thought to it.

At one point writing was a release for me.  A way to let go of all that I was harboring inside.  A safe way to work through the issue at hand.  A masterful way of finding a suitable resolve to whatever the issue was.  But the day my brother and my mother gave life to all my writings;  that day, everything changed.

I went from having a trusted confident to feeling betrayed by my own hand.  I held paper and pen at bay for decades; refusing to "speak" to it as I had once done so freely.  School was especially hard when it came time to write papers that required opinions, personal or emotional views.  How could I trust that my words would not find a voice again and betray me given the chance to speak?  So instead of relishing the opportunity to give my words a home on paper I kept them hidden; locked away for no ones eyes or ears.  At least if I kept them inside I could avoid the impending betrayal that came with someone giving voice to my words; my thoughts.  They were mine and I would never again allow anyone to bring them to life.

Its a hard life to live when you "feel" you were born to write; born to express yourself on paper while maintaining a vow to never write again.  Its like being stabbed in the heart every time someone tells you "You should write a book".  If only they knew why I felt I could never write again.  Not because I'm lacking skill enough to do so.  Not because I have not had many a good idea.  Not because I lack funding to bring a dream to life.

I could not do so because I did not believe I would ever be at a place in life where I would feel comfortable enough to allow my words to flow freely onto paper without giving validity to the haunting thought that someone, somewhere, would emerge from a room lending their voice to my words written on paper.

Alas today I find myself standing at the crossroads of a possible dream come true if only I can let go of the past and embrace the future.  So much has changed for me.  Things I only dreamed about being possible are now a reality.  I found ways to let go of much of my childhood anger and fear, but am I ready to take that terrifying step into a future of unknown possibilities?  Am I ready to write again?  Is it possible to reach a point where one's desire to write over-shadows the fear of doing so?

I began think it might not only be possible, but highly probable.  And for the first time in decades I am finding great comfort in expressing myself on paper.  More than that, I am actually feeling the twangs of anticipation that comes from wanting, truly wanting, to write.  To embrace the release that comes from letting it all out.

Today I stood at the crossroads between my future and my past.  I examined all that was relevant and made the decision to take a leap of faith.   I am ready to move on.  Ready to let go.  Ready to not only allow, but to encourage others to lend their voice to my words.

These may be my words but they are meaningless until they are given life with your voice.